A Step Beyond (2 page)

“What does it mean?” asked one of the scientists.

As Tretyak dialed the operations director, his mind raced with possibilities. He knew that even a small mishap could be fatal, and with the craft several million kilometers from Earth there was little hope of rescue. If they were not already dead, they would almost certainly soon be. But he mustn’t jump to conclusions. He was overreacting, he told himself. He must be. But what if he weren’t? This was to be Russia’s greatest technological and political triumph, the crowning glory of the New Republic. Details of the mission were being publicized worldwide. A disaster now would be a major political embarrassment. Tretyak felt ashamed. The political consequences should be secondary.

The phone rang several times before Colonel Leonid Schebalin answered. Schebalin was the operations director for the Mars mission and the second Russian to walk on the moon; difficulties with his inner ear as a result of a cold contracted during his last flight in space had scrubbed him permanently from the program. Until then, he had been the primary candidate for mission commander of the Mars flight.

“Yes,” he said, tired and disoriented.

“Sir,” began Tretyak, “we have a problem here.”

“Who is this?” Schebalin asked drowsily.

“Yuri Tretyak at mission control.”

“Yes, Yuri, what is it?”

“Sir, something has gone wrong. We received a telemetry from
Volnost
several minutes ago indicating a fire and loss of pressure on the flight deck. Then all transmissions ceased. I called you immediately.” Tretyak struggled to maintain a professional tone. The other scientists were crowding around him. He closed his eyes and waited for Schebalin to speak.

“Who knows about this?”

Tretyak was momentarily taken aback by the coldness in the colonel’s voice. “Just the men on duty. You were the first person we called.”

“Good. It would be unfortunate if this matter reached the press before we were able to determine the extent of the damage; if indeed there is a problem and this is not simply a computer malfunction. We must determine the facts before we release them. It is imperative that you alert no one else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Tretyak replied automatically.

“Good. I will notify the appropriate people from here. Have you attempted to contact the cosmonauts?”

“Yes, sir. We’re still waiting for their reply.”

“Very well. I will be there within thirty minutes.” Schebalin disconnected the line with a sharp tap. He could sense his pulse quickening. He had spent the last eight years working directly with the cosmonauts, and he counted them among his closest friends. But, he knew, his first responsibility was to the Republic.

B
oris Gorbatko, his hair disarrayed like a mad scientist’s (a comparison he would find flattering), viewed the screen with his head slightly cocked. The keys clicked rapidly under his long fingers as he grumbled at the data that scrolled before him. His attempts to access the main processor had failed.

“The main computer is most likely down,” he said while typing, “although I can’t be certain. Whenever I attempt to access it, the comm line returns a disconnected status. The fiber optics may have been severed. The only way to find out is physically to trace the wire. The closed-circuit cameras in the forward cabin are out.” He motioned upward with his eyebrows. “On monitors three and four is the external view, nothing unusual there, but then the cameras were not designed to scan that sector of the hull. The environmental monitors are dead. I am unable to verify the zero-kp reading or the fire. There was definitely an explosion, however. We are several degrees off course.”

“Comm status?” asked Titov.

“I have built a circuit that bypasses the main processor and feeds directly to the high-gain antenna. We are receiving the signal from the tracking satellite. Kaliningrad should know about the explosion by now, but it is still too soon to receive their response,” he said, looking up from his watch. “We should be able to transmit.”

“Patch me in for a downlink.” Titov pushed himself toward a free terminal. Eleven minutes before Earth would receive this transmission, he thought, and another eleven minutes before he would receive a reply—a total of twenty-two minutes, plus the time it would take for ground control to assess the situation and decide upon a course of action. The last environmental telemetry might have alerted them to the problem, hopefully reducing their reaction time. That would be helpful, but he doubted it would be enough. Time was short. He looked into the small lens of the camera above the monitor and cleared his throat.

“There has been an explosion on the flight deck,” he said. “The module lost pressure and might be on fire. The midcabin and aft cabin appear undamaged. The main computer is down. We are still in the process of determining the extent of the damage. Lieutenant Colonel Demin was on the flight deck at the time of the explosion. It is unlikely that he survived. Please advise.”

Titov shut down the link and turned to Chertok, the ship’s pilot. “We shall commence our investigation while we wait for their response. The first step will be to enter the midcabin. Since the risks are unknown, only one person will go. I want that person to be you. Any objections?”

“I will go.”

“Good,” replied Titov. “Take the hardsuit. Once you’re inside the midcabin, you will perform a visual check of the flight deck. If it looks safe, reduce the pressure of the cabin to zero. You are to record the entire deck with the video camera. Miss nothing. Above all, proceed with caution. Questions?”

Chertok shook his head to indicate that he had none. “I’ll need some help with the suit.”

“Of course.”

The hardsuit was constructed of metallic tubes and weighed 215 pounds on Earth. The tubes were joined by constant volume joints, which maintained a steady air pressure of 62 kp’s, eliminating the need for prebreathing pure oxygen. Pre-breathing was necessary when using a softsuit and was normally started two hours prior to extravehicular activity in order to purge nitrogen from the blood. Without this precaution, the nitrogen would bubble out and collect in the joints of the body. This condition was known as dysbarism, or the bends. Severe cases could be fatal.

As Titov assisted Chertok with the suit, he wondered if they would survive. He assumed their chances to be slim but was determined to pursue every possible course before admitting defeat. If the damage to the forward cabin was minimal, they should be able to correct the
Volnost
’s trajectory and continue to Mars. Upon their arrival they could dock with the sister ship, refuel, and conduct repairs. They would then return to Earth as soon as the launch window opened. But for that to happen, the damage had to be minimal, and given what they already knew, that did not seem likely.

“Everybody make sure your oxygen masks are secure,” Titov said once he was certain the fittings of the hardsuit were properly fastened. He held Chertok by the shoulders. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Chertok replied.

Titov opened the portal separating the aft cabin and mid-cabin, allowing Chertok to step through. Upon entering the cabin, Chertok stopped to survey his surroundings as the door closed behind him. By the dim light of the emergency lamps, he could make out the microscope on the laboratory bench to his left, and directly above him a stationary bike; the control console was to his left on the forward wall. The room was compact and for that reason had always seemed disorganized, but as far as he could tell everything was in its proper place.

He carefully made his way toward the control console. Upon reaching the console he engaged the emergency power and switched on the lights. The sound of his breathing, amplified by the silence, reverberated through his helmet as he rotated slowly. The room was hauntingly still. He spoke into his microphone.

“Everything appears to be in order, nothing damaged or disturbed. I will proceed to the forward portal.”

“Be careful.”

Chertok obtained a high-powered flashlight from a supply cabinet and propelled himself in the direction of the flight deck. Although he had expected some damage, he was not at all prepared for the devastation he saw. For nearly a minute he stared in disbelief, without speaking, without hearing Titov’s voice demanding a response. There was a blackened body, arms extended, floating in the middle of the room. Chertok felt a surge of nausea. He started gasping for air—and as the initial symptoms of hyperventilation seized him, he regained his senses enough to decrease the oxygen flow through his suit. He became aware of Titov’s anxious voice ordering him to report.

“Sergei . . .” He swallowed and began again. “Sergei is dead. I can see his body. The flight deck console is destroyed.”

“Clarify ‘destroyed,’ Mikhail.”

“It is not there. Gone. Torn from the wall. Just a bunch of dangling wires. Hold on . . . There is a hole.”

“How wide is the breach?”

“Approximately twenty centimeters in diameter.”

Twenty centimeters, thought Titov. What in the world could blow a hole in the side of his hull twenty centimeters wide? A meteoroid possibly. The
Volnost
was constantly being bombarded by micrometeoroids; in fact, Russian scientists had estimated the ship would be struck over two billion times in the course of its journey by particles less than one-ten-thousandth of a gram. But the
Volnost
had an outer shell that protected it against such collisions. He estimated the object would have had to be at least a gram in size to pierce the shell. The odds were less than one in ten thousand that they would be struck by a particle that large.

It was more likely that the breach had been caused by an internal explosion, he thought. Considering the amount of time and effort expended to ensure the safety of the ship, such an explosion seemed unlikely. But not as unlikely as being struck by a meteoroid large enough to wreak this degree of havoc. The Russian engineers had not provided him with the probability of such an occurrence, just their assurance it would not happen. It was a recognized danger, and contingency plans had been prepared, but their effectiveness depended upon the extent of the damage.

“Any indication of what may have created the hole?” Titov asked.

“It is too dark to make out much detail.”

“Is the metal at the edge of the opening bent inward or outward?” Gorbatko asked. His thoughts regarding possible causes had paralleled Titov’s.

“I cannot tell from here,” Chertok responded.

“Commence depressurization of the cabin,” Titov said.

They had the equipment and materials to patch a breach. It was a standard drill, and they had practiced it several times underwater. Titov was more disturbed by the damage to the flight-deck console. Without the console they would be unable to alter the course of the
Volnost
. He wondered how Gorbatko was progressing. Pushing against the wall, Titov propelled himself toward the engineer.

“Appears we’re going to have to do without the main processor,” Gorbatko said.

Titov nodded that he understood. He sat down and brought up the directory for the habitat computer. It contained many of the same files as the main processor, but was not powerful enough to perform some of the more complex functions. He was studying a schematic of the ship when an image of the forward cabin appeared on monitor one. Chertok had entered the flight deck and was scanning his surroundings with the remote video camera. The burned shell of the cabin swung back and forth on the monitor. Pieces of the console floated within a maze of twisted metal and loose wires. The camera lingered on Demin’s charred remains for a moment, then turned away. Chertok located the breach. It enlarged and filled the screen as the camera zoomed in. Titov could see stars through the hole. Although he had anticipated the damage, he had not expected it to be so bad.

“Looks like the explosion was caused by an external force,” Gorbatko said. “The metal of the opening is definitely bent inward.”

The camera made several slow circles outside the hole, revealing sheets of twisted metal blackened by the explosion. Titov grew pale as he studied the monitor.

“I think it is the remnants of the main oxygen tank,” he said. “Mikhail, if you could scan to the left. Back a little. It looks as if both tanks are gone. Boris, check the reserve tanks.”

“One second,” Gorbatko replied. His throat went dry. The two reserve tanks were located in the aft cabin and contained a forty-eight-hour supply of oxygen for six men. Titov had already switched over to the reserve tanks.

“Ninety-five percent full,” Gorbatko replied. They were six months from Earth with less than two days’ worth of air. A long minute passed in uneasy silence. Titov could see the fear building in the eyes of his men. A thought occurred to him, but in the back of his mind he wasn’t sure if it would work.

“We still have a chance,” he said. “It may be possible to dock with the supply ship.”

He had their attention. They all knew that the supply ship had been designed to accommodate the crew in the event the
Volnost
experienced catastrophic failure.

“Without a flight deck we are unable to control the
Volnost,
but Kaliningrad can still control the supply ship. If they can bring her in close enough to dock, we could transfer over. I will contact ground control and consult with them regarding the rendezvous. They can perform the calculations to determine the feasibility. Meanwhile, we need to proceed with our investigation of the damage.” He switched on his microphone. “Mikhail?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“We have less than forty-eight hours of oxygen. It is imperative that we act quickly. We need to salvage what we can, as quickly as we can. I want you to gather the necessary gear to patch the breach so that we can restore pressure to the flight deck.”

“Affirmative.”

Titov turned to face his crew, and said firmly, “I would appreciate any other suggestions that you may have.”

C
olonel Leonid Schebalin stood in the main hall of mission control with his hands clasped behind his back. He appeared to be unaware of the noise and commotion that surrounded him. His uniform was sharply pressed and crisp, his boots recently polished; despite his haste to reach mission control that morning, he had taken extra care to make himself presentable. He knew that before the day was out he would be delivering a statement to the press.